From Across the Room, Gina L. Mulligan [year 7 reading list txt] 📗

those pages of homely, slanted scrawl are filled with words of love?”

She rubbed her forehead. “No, that’s not what I’m trying to say. Thomas, you have to understand that I wanted to protect you. You were all alone, lonely, and made it very clear you didn’t even want to hear of dinner parties. How could I tell you something like this?”

My pulse raced. “Don’t twist my words. I told you I didn’t enjoy hearing of your escapades. I never said you should cavort with other men and then lie about it. You should have told me, Mary.” I thought of all my letters. “I even wrote how wonderful it was you didn’t have to spend time with the Muskrat. Oh, wait, excuse my insensitivity, Mr. Kennard, or should I just call him Lowell?”

Anger pressed against my chest. For weeks I had endured the desperate uncertainty of our future and thwarted threats against my life while she enjoyed pleasant evenings with another man. Beads of sweat gathered at my temples as I met her stare.

“When you barely wrote full sentences from Abilene, Mary, I worried for your safety and that you were desperately lonely. As you continued to stay aloof, I thought maybe I was pushing too hard and felt guilty. Then I was elated when you said you wanted me in your life no matter the repercussions, but now I understand. I’m a fool. You were appeasing me. You've just been busy with an attentive suitor and didn’t want me to know about it. Why bother telling me about secluded buggy rides or lavish gifts,” I said, pausing to catch my breath. “Or the trivial matter of a blooming marriage proposal!”

“Thomas, keep your voice down. You don’t want her to overhear us.”

“That’s what you’re concerned with; that Abigail will hear me? Let her. Doesn’t she already know all about Mr. Kennard? She seemed so excited by his letter. Surely you girls have chatted about the gent who brought you fresh blueberries every morning.”

Mary slapped her hands on her hips, fury blazing in her eyes. “I haven’t discussed anything with that woman. Do you think I’m brainless?”

“No, I think you’re a liar. I think you didn’t write because you were enjoying the Muskrat’s attentions. Why not? He’s an established businessman who holds charity balls and impresses your father. It’s all very simple. You haven’t said no to Kennard because you’re considering his proposal.”

“That’s not so and you know it. You’re not listening with your ears; you’re listening with your oversized ego,” she shouted. “As soon as you began your book you thought of me only when I didn’t get in the way of your precious work. I came to this vacant mud bog to see you, but you’ve been ‘carried away.’ You weren’t too busy to dine with the glamorous opera singer, were you Thomas? I saw the news clipping. Katya Petrova is stunning and you say you hardly noticed her. You’re the liar.”

I slammed my palm against the window frame. “Well that just beats the Dutch. After what you confessed you have the nerve to accuse me. And what would it matter if I were attracted to a beautiful opera singer anyway? You’re soon to be Mrs. Mary Muskrat.”

“I,” she gasped for air, the halted sound shook against her chest and tears ran down her red cheeks. “I don’t want to marry him, but he’s the only one who’s asked.”

Her words felt like a blade through my stomach. For a moment the light dimmed. I turned and enunciated each word for fear of what I might say in haste. I was surprised to hear my voice shudder from rage. “You wanted me to wait for your father’s blessing, so—”

“You deserted me to write some silly, adolescent novel.”

I was so stunned I fell backward against the wall. Had I been farther away from the pine panels I would have fallen all the way to the floor.

“Thomas, I didn’t mean … I’m so frustrated and—”

I raised my hand. “No. No. I understand. You’re correct; I live in a world of make believe, a fantasy land, and I’m probably just another gadabout wasting time and my father’s money with my silly novels.”

I started toward the door.

“Thomas, wait, I didn’t—”

“Wait for what?” I asked. When Mary said she wanted to build a life with me, I believed her. When she decreed she was going to Abilene, I apologized for trying to stop her and prayed for her safety. Then when I heard little from her for weeks, I feared she was tormented by the complexity of our affair. Instead I find out she was well occupied with escorts and marriage proposals and continues to go to great lengths to hide me and our attachment. How could I have been such a simpleton? Everything was clear.

“You’re concerned with what ladies like Mrs. Winchester will think of you and your imprudent choice. If I were as famous as Henry you might reconsider, but Mr. Kennard’s a satisfactory match and it’s easier to obey your father. I was a frivolous summer novelty, but I’m sure any feelings you have for me will fade away quickly enough. And, of course, there’s Mr. Kennard’s considerable wealth and standing. He’s a reputable figure not a stumbling scribbler. It seems you have what you really want, so I’ll step aside. At least this writer of juvenile drivel is still a gentleman.”

“You believe I have what I want? You think me capable of trifling with you, any man, for folly then marrying for wealth? What kind of man are you, Thomas Gadwell? You believe stepping aside and questioning my intentions makes you a gentleman?”

“I think that, Miss Harting, depends on the lady.”

I left; Mary did not stop me.

The person who knocked on my door yesterday was Abigail’s messenger with a brief note. Mary returned to New York. Abigail is relieved there will be less tension in her house.

So, Henry, I guess we can abandon the wrangle of blooming love and return to chastising the decline of American values; sit for hours and ramble about the inefficiencies of the world without exerting any effort. It is what I do best.

Mary Harting will wed Lowell Kennard, and I shall finish my work with a heavy pen and wiser perspective. Love is indeed a madness that ruins us all.

Your foolish,

Thomas

May 11, 1889.

DEAR MOTHER —

Happy Anniversary. By the time you read this, Father shall have taken you to a fine restaurant and given you a dazzling necklace. He has fine taste in jewelry and women.

Yesterday the sun at last graced the island, and though I fled the study for a refreshing stroll by the docks I found a bitter outlook. The fishermen have returned. The air smelled of brine, chum, wet burlap, unfinished ale, dirty coats upon dirty men, and spilled oil. The putrid mixture means summer is near. And so is my deadline.

I must finish my work before crowds clutter the beaches with flying horseshoes. If I continue at my current pace and rigid routine I hope to just make it. Therefore, Mother, for the time being I must insist we dispense with this unpleasant topic.

Indeed something happened with my young lady, and our brief union ended in the way of all failed love. We spoke careless, regrettable words, though I believe those are truer than the words we practice. She has not attempted to contact me, nor have I her. Your son is again an eligible bachelor.

Perhaps when I return to Boston we can speak of love and relationships as you so desire. Right now I find it all tiresome, like a jigsaw puzzle without an edge. I must leave you knowing your instincts are intact and your son grows ever wiser. If it helps to know I am not without prospect, another young lady fancies my company. Maybe I am as charming as you claim—and I thought it just maternal pride.

Your son,

Thomas

May 12, 1889.

BEAUREGARD —

How wonderful to hear from a man who begins his letter with an expletive on obliging native girls and then inquires of my state. You are redeemed only by your invitation.

My first inclination was to seek out my trunks. This was magnified when I stepped outside for the post and was pelted by a spring downpour before slipping and tearing open the elbow of my shirt, not to mention the skin beneath. As I still want to speak with you and will soon need a vacation, I shall mull over your offer. There is something we need to discuss about our time in Italy.

By the way, what does one pack to frolic on a yacht in the Mediterranean?

Thomas

May 12, 1889.

AVERY —

Final edits are enclosed and I am now focused on the polished draft of the next book. I have no intention of missing the June deadline.

T. G.

May 19, 1889.

DEAR MARY —

This letter may never see an envelope. Given my current state it may fuel the fire before I finish. Why then do I make overtures I will not fulfill? I must release my emotions at least on paper or wake one morning, put on my overcoat and heavy hunting boots, and walk into the sea until the world is again peaceful.

It has been over a month since our parting, yet when I stop writing and sit in the quiet for even a moment I am haunted by images of you and the Muskrat taunting my foolishness as you plan your happy future together. By now you may be living as newlyweds, setting up your household and waking in each other’s arms while I nibble crackers and sleep just a few hours each night.

There are so many regrets forever trapped in Abigail’s salon. If I could go back in time, I would change so much of what I said and how I reacted. I was caught off guard, and my anger flared more readily than I ever thought possible. But even so, I am still unable to reconcile your secrets with the forthright woman who so dazzled me in our seaside gazebo. Worse yet, I loathe myself for not proposing when I wanted. If I had, mine would have been your first. Instead you forever share that precious memory with someone else. Nothing can change that now.

And how could we let that meddling old shrew ruin our time together? I do believe her regard for me has changed. Mrs. Winchester seemed shocked by the tongue-lashing I gave her at the market. Perhaps I should have had better hold of my temper, but she chose a most fragile moment to confide her designs I marry her little protégé. She had the audacity to speak to me as a loving grandmother safeguarding my interests. My only regret is I must find a new grocer.

Mary, our spiteful words have not changed my feelings for you though I pray for such a release. My torment continues because I still love you. I love you. I have run out of fancy words for my affection and metaphors for your smile. But will I ever know your true feelings for me and my work?

Our fight could have ended with soft apologies had you refrained from attacking my Achilles heel. My pride, my oversized ego is too bruised. I wait for an apology but there is no letter in the box or telegraph at the office. I yearn to leave the image of your face here to gather mildew with the trinkets on the shelf and flee to a yacht in the sunshine. You were the woman to whom I pledged my heart, the mother of my